


The State of Us

by Menirva



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: But written as both being able to consent even if it's probably a bad idea for them both, Choking, M/M, Rough Sex, could be considered dub con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-16
Updated: 2015-11-23
Packaged: 2018-04-14 23:33:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4584456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Menirva/pseuds/Menirva
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One is a perfect soldier. One is a perfect machine. Over time, they both remind one another that there's some humanity somewhere in there too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It's the scent on him. That's what Rumlow decides that he hates the most, when he comes back from it. He doesn't need to be told he's been wiped then, not that he's on the need-to-know basis with that shit. But it always catches in his nostrils before he ever looks at The Asset's blank eyes.

 

Bucky's blank eyes. He never uses The Asset's name in front of anyone. He shouldn't ever use it in front of The Asset. He knows he's not supposed to know it. He knows there are a lot of things he sure as shit isn't supposed to know about the Winter Solider, but he's a ghost story that Rumlow has never been spooked by, and that's what got him into this mess, this endless cycle he needs to break.

 

He smells it now as he's crouched over a computer console, gloveless fingers tapping over touchless keys, sending orders out to mindless drones of SHIELD who will never understand all of the faults in their work, how a band aid can't ever fix a shot to the gut.

 

Ozone, singed hair, and, of all things, fucking cat piss.

 

He's never understood that one, and he doesn’t want to. His shoulders almost stiffen. They don't. He knows this drill, and maybe he can change the pattern this time, finally show some fucking self control.

 

The scent stings his nostrils. He shouldn't smell like cat piss. He should smell like eggs, all scrambled up. It's a funny thought and out of place in this room as he straightens his spine and spins around to face the sound of booted feet shuffling in. They all keep a fair distance from the shell in front of him, the one that's lost all of its yolk. There's only whites left, a blank stare that doesn't meet his as Rumlow's eyes flick over him. Just an appraisal of a soldier, not even that really, an _asset_. It's a good way of making someone not even human after all, an _asset_.

 

Rumlow would give a lot to see a world without war, with peace, order that he knows will only come from force, through pain, but he won't ever give what this _asset_ has. He'll give his body, but not his mind.

 

 _But he never gave it, not by choice_.

 

He knows that, read the file, but it's not his business. The world needs sacrifices, and if he can't give them, someone else will just have to.

 

“Agent Rumlow.” Pierce's voice cuts through his thoughts with its usual calm, almost friendly edge to it. Years of playing politics have only perfected it. It's something Rumlow can admire. He can't play that game. He never could. It's enough every day to pretend to lap up all of the bullshit SHIELD spews out. “The Asset will be out of cold storage for several days. You'll be his handler.”

 

How many times has he heard this before? That's the thing about being 'fearless,' you get the jobs no one else will take. He only gives a nod. “Mission?”

 

“Not just yet. Routine maintenance first. We're pulling it out early because we need it in tiptop shape for the next phase.” Pierce's mouth stretches into a smile and he clasps a hand over The Asset's shoulder like a proud coach might pat their favorite player. Maybe that's not right, but he can't think of a better analogy right now. He's more thinking about the fact that there's no mission. That he's just expected to sit around and babysit.

 

He hates babysitting. The final phase isn't for at least a few weeks yet. That's a long while for The Asset to be out of cold store for routine work, especially with no initial missions to keep it busy.

 

“I trust that won't be an issue?” Pierce asks and Rumlow respects the man too much to hate him for it. He knows, anyway. He's known since somewhere around the beginning when this clusterfuck of a thing happened.

 

“ _Did you really think HYDRA would simply leave their greatest asset completely unsupervised?”_

 

“ _I thought I was the supervision, sir,” he answered roughly. It had been a long time since Rumlow had felt the heat of embarrassment on his face. It was mixed with a twist in his stomach, as he stood up in front of Pierce, buck naked in his military stance. There was no hiding what they’d been doing, sweat was still clinging to his body and the room stank like sex. The Winter Soldier was sitting up on the bunk, sheets pooled around his legs as his hands gripped tightly to the ledge. In the dark, Rumlow's eye caught the metal being slowly crushed between his fingers._

 

_He was staring straight ahead, blank eyes on the blank wall. It twisted his gut a little more. A few minutes ago, there had been life in those eyes, dark rimmed and hazy with a lost sort of pleasure. There were dark bruises on Rumlow’s shoulders beginning to form and ache with how tightly he had been held onto. He had never felt like an anchor before, and he didn’t know what he was thinking, fucking HYDRA's perfect weapon. What was the punishment for that? He was too valuable to just kill. Brock knows that without feeling better about it. Beside him was a man that was too valuable to just kill, and look where he was now. Look where Rumlow might be next; two shells staring at the lines in the wall across from them and understanding nothing but orders._

 

_He was ready to shit himself when Pierce laughed suddenly, the hands on his pressed suit pants leaving them to clap together. “Well, boys will be boys, I suppose. Hell, we probably benefit from it, too. Can't imagine a century of blue balls would help it keep its focus.” Pierce's face split with a grin and it was the only time Rumlow had ever considered striking down his superior officer. The thought was there and gone like a flick of water in a hot pan._

 

“ _I'd warn you not to get too attached to your little buddy there, but I know your profile, agent. You're not the type.”_

 

“ _No sir, I'm not_.”

 

Rumlow almost wonders now if _he's_ part of this 'routine maintenanc e,’ but he won't ask. He doesn't need or really want to know the answer. He just gives his 'yes sir' to Pierce, and waits for the scientists to shuffle out with the man before he turns back to the console. He's alone in the room now, or he might as well be. He knows The Asset is standing behind him, unmoving, waiting for orders. He likes to pretend he doesn't know why they wipe him right after cold storage. What he doesn't pretend is to understand all of the technicalities behind their toy. He's just babysitting.

 

“Go sit down, at least.” He'd meant it as more of an order. A simple 'sit' would have worked. It's already a bad start. He talks to him too much like he's a person, a soldier, and he can hear it in his own tone, quieter, more rough taken out of the edges than he wants. He doesn't hear The Asset move, but suddenly he's in his line of vision, his walk completely silent as he lowers himself to sit in a nearby chair. It rolls slightly, in a way The Asset didn't seem to calculate, and his body shifts it a few inches back. There's a flick of brief surprise in his eyes as his hand quickly shoots out to stabilize himself at the table.

 

Rumlow drops his head down, a soft laugh shaking through his shoulders. He shouldn't. This is how this shit starts, but he can't get over how when their asset is alone without a mission how different he can be, how fucking _human_. Is it just him who ever sees this? Probably, or at least now it is. He doesn't know who handled the man before he came on board. He doesn't have any reason to go digging around in those files.

 

“Startle yourself there, guy?” He watches those blank eyes flick towards him. It's not an order, not information. It's conversation, and The Asset never knows quite what to do with that. Rumlow shakes his head. “You're fine. Just sit tight. We'll be out of here in an hour or so.” It's more of an order and so it's followed. The Asset sits and waits. Rumlow doesn't bother introducing himself, asking if The Asset remembers him. He doesn't. He never does.

 

* * *

 

 

“ _Not again. Pierce think I got nothing better to do?” Rumlow stared out the door and into the pouring rain. He'd been stationed in New Jersey, of all places. Temporary muscle in an old training ground. The place was a ghost town, only him and a handful of scientists. That was fine by him, gave him some rare privacy in one of the solo rooms. The Asset didn't have much of an escort. No one really liked to be around it for long. That was why he was always elected. The thing just didn't bother him, didn't scare him. It always followed orders. What was so terrifying about that?_

 

_There was only one scientist now, standing two arms-lengths away from him and soaked through to the bones. “And what the fuck is up with his arm?” It looked shot to shit, metal plating ripped up, a soft, whirring click playing on repeat as the mechanisms inside worked to reconcile its damage. One metal finger was torn clean off._

 

“ _There's no time to fix it, now. It'll hold until morning._ ” _The soldier held out a clipboard. “Sign off on it so I can get out of here.”_

 

_It was going to be a not-so-private room after all. Rumlow signed off on his special delivery. He'd already watched over him a few times. He didn't know why they bothered. He never got into trouble. He was pretty certain he would just stand outside in the rain until the end of time if he wasn't ordered to move. Maybe that was why; if something went wrong, someone had to be around to order him into action._

 

“ _Get in here.” He barked out the order, forcing the door closed behind them before the rain could blow in past the entryway. He'd been dressed down, gear stored on a table and ready to relax a little before bed. “Go sit down on the chair. I'm putting dinner on the stove and hitting the shower.”_

 

_When he came out of the bathroom, he snorted. The Asset was sitting on a wooden chair, the floor around him soaked with rainwater as it dripped from his hair. It was hard to tell where his eyes were focused, if they were focused at all. You just never knew with that mask.”You look like a fucking drowned cat. Guess they expect me to take care of that?” Hell if he knew, could it get sick? Maybe they didn't care. They didn't care about fixing his arm right now._

 

_Whir, click. The soft noise of failed mechanics could be heard even more without the storm muffling it. The four fingers remaining on it hung down uselessly. His other hand was clenched tightly._

 

“ _At least take off the tech, guy. It probably needs to dry out.” He never knew what to call it; 'asset' sounded like he was talking to a piece of equipment, and soldier didn't sound right, either. He'd settled on ‘guy’, at least when he was playing babysitter. It just made things easier. He watched as The Asset's head ticked towards him, taking in the order. There was a loud crunching noise as his metallic arm was raised up an inch or two in an effort to obey before it dropped again._

 

“ _Dumb shit.” He muttered it. “Use your other hand.”_

 

_The Asset stared down at his other hand, the fist tightly clenched. It seemed... lost. Rumlow scrubbed his hand over his face. The scientists back in their lab had their work cut out for them in the morning. In the meantime, it seemed wrong to yell at something that couldn't obey even when it was trying. “Ok, just hang on.”_

 

_It took him a second to figure out how to even pull the mask off. He had to sink his fingers into wet, loose hair, working free a hidden clasp. There was no flinch. The Asset was more than used to being poked and prodded. He knew the goggles were specially calibrated for The Asset, letting him see farther, gain intel to process faster than any human could. He was almost tempted to have a look through them, but thought better of it, setting them down on the table along with a few other key pieces of equipment strapped to The Asset._

 

“ _What's in your hand?” He finally realized as he caught a glint of metal tightly clenched between flesh fingers. He held his own hand out for it. The Assets uncovered eyes flicked up towards him. They seemed… uncertain? That was as close as Rumlow had ever gotten to being unnerved around him._

 

_When he looked human._

 

“ _Come on, give it over, guy.” He felt like he was talking to some kid now, who had brought something in from the rain, a slug or muddy rock, or something that he needed to hand over. The Asset finally lifted his good arm stiffly, his fingers unlocked and something cool and heavy landed in Rumlow's outstretched palm._

 

_His thumb. Oh._

 

_It felt wrong to laugh, then, not with how it had been clinging to it, like it was so important to him to keep it with him. Like anyone would be if they lost a body part. Any human._

 

“ _Alright. I'm just going to put this with your—with the other things.” He laid the hunk of metal out on top of the mask and caught how The Asset's fingers twitched on both hands, the whir and click louder for a moment. “It's not going anywhere.”_

 

_The vest took him a second, and but soon he had the thing down to its pants and boots, the rest of the gear laying dripping on the table. His towel was damp but he tossed it over The Asset's head shoulders since the material was still dryer than it was at the moment. He really did look like a cat, Rumlow decided, a washed up cat. He wasn't going to towel him off, though, his duties as babysitter only went so far and he was pretty sure it couldn't get sick anyway. He'd done more than most people would._

 

_That's where it should have ended. He should have just gotten some food in him, in them both, really, since he knew it did eat while it was out, and be done with it. He had the use of his one hand now, at least. Rumlow wasn't about to spoon it into his mouth himself, not that shit nutrition paste they fed him._

 

_Which they hadn't sent, he realized. “You supposed to eat?”_

 

_He waited for a response. He knew the thing could talk, it was rare, and never without being asked a question that he could respond to without words. Finally The Asset opened his mouth. Rumlow could imagine it as almost rusty with disuse. He didn't know how long it had been in cold storage before this, how long it had been since it had eaten or said a word, maybe months—maybe a year? When had he seen it last? He couldn't remember, time flew by too fast._

 

“ _I don't know.”_

 

_Rumlow grit his teeth. He wasn't sure why he'd expected anything more than that. “Guess we're sharing,” he decided. There was enough, and it didn't make sense not to feed it. He slid a plate of chili and rice in front of The Asset, pushing aside soaked equipment so that he could plunk down his own plate and eat._

 

_He watched The Asset pick up the spoon and stare down at the plate._

 

“ _I'm sure it tastes a hell of a lot better than what you're used to. Eat up.”_

 

_Their spoons scraped the plates, almost synced up with the whir-click of The Asset's arm. “That's going to drive me up the wall,” he said, trying to picture sleeping with it going on in the room. It made The Asset look back down at his arm, focusing on it, a small downward tick of his lips. Clearly, he didn't like it, either. It was about as expressive as Rumlow had ever seen him. His eyes flicked back to the thumb on the table._

 

“ _They're going to fix you up in the morning, guy.” Rumlow’s voice was reassuring. He surprised himself with it, and clearly it wasn’t expected. “I should look at your arm after we eat.” He was no scientist, but he'd done his fair share of mechanics. He didn’t expect to be able to fix it, but maybe he could at least make the noises stop until morning._

 

“ _My thumb.”_

 

_Rumlow stopped with his spoon halfway to his mouth. “I doubt I can fix that, guy. Unless you want me to just tape it there.” He swallowed down a bite of chili, watching, not visibly reacting to The Asset suddenly nodding, looking almost earnest._

 

“ _Tape it is.”_

 

_He slid his chair over after sticking the plates in the sink. There wasn’t much to work with, just some basic tools he kept on hand wherever he went. He was an agent. He needed to be prepared. There was also some duct tape. He felt ridiculous doing it, pulling off a long strip of gray and taking the lump of metal, taping it back into place. He knew it was going to be met with some raised eyebrows in the morning, but, well, clearly The Asset felt better after he did it. There was no outward sign of that, not really, it was just a feeling in the air. Relief? Maybe. Now, if he could just stop that damn whirring._

 

_Rumlow was leaning in, squinting as he studied the exposed hydraulics. It was a mess in there, more than he could ever hope to understand. It wasn’t hard to locate where the noise was coming from, though. There was a set of wires connected to a small pump, and a set of cogs. It looked like the wires were sending a signal to the cogs to turn, but they were crushed, creating the whir and click each time. He didn’t think it was a good idea to cut the wires, so he took a pair of small pliers, reaching in to carefully pry up one of the cogs. It kept spinning, but now was doing so freely, the noise finally stopped._

 

_He sat back in the chair, satisfied._

 

_He was a HYDRA agent. He didn’t jump at the sudden feeling of a hand around his throat, but he didn’t expect it, either. It cut off his air, and shit, it was a good thing its metal arm was still out of commission, because if it hadn’t been he'd have been on the floor with a crushed larynx._

 

“ _Guy.” He choked it out, his own hands clawed into the meat of a thick forearm straight in front of him. Anyone else, and he could have broken this. His bare feet came up to kick into The Asset's gut. It didn’t even seem to feel it. It only stood stiffly, eyes staring right through him, its fingers not budging as black started to seep into the edges of Rumlow’s vision._

 

“ _Buchanan, James. Stand down, soldier.” It was a wheezed out, desperate measure. He wasn’t supposed to know, but when he’d first started doing this he'd read up on the project, wanted to know what he was getting into._

 

 _If he’d thought that was going to be a magic button, some switch to flick The Asset off, he was wrong. The Asset's head jerks slightly, its eyes narrowing,_ his _eyes narrowing. He'd never looked more human—scared?_

 

“ _Bucky, it's ok, guy.” It took the last of his air, but finally, he could feel that death grip loosen enough that he could suck in deep lungfuls of oxygen. It wasn’t the first time he'd almost suffocated. He could feel the familiar dizziness forcing him to stay sitting as his hands braced on his knees, and the rush of blood flooded to his brain, though some heading lower. He'd never claimed not to have fucked up tastes._

 

“ _What is that?” The Asset, Bucky, sat back down, staring at him. His eyes were wild, his breathing heavy with exertion even though Rumlow knew it probably took next to nothing to nearly strangle him. “Is that me?”_

 

_He'd been out of storage too long. Rumlow knew that from the intel he’d read up on. He'd been thinking too much. Probably the only reason he was still alive, now. They'd wipe him, probably right after his tune up. It didn’t mean anything to nod his head as he slowly stands up. “Yeah, that's you. Now, if you're done choking me, it's time to get some sleep.” He reached up to touch his own throat. It was tender and there'd be no doubt he’d been in a stranglehold the next day from the purple ring around his collar. It almost felt good. Rumlow’s body had never learned to tell the difference between a good fight and a good fuck. Half the time, they just jammed up together in his brain, and he enjoyed the bruises from both._

 

_Bucky. The word was mouthed silently by the man in front of him, once, twice, three times, as if he hoped saying it again and again would make him remember, some kind of chant to ward off all of HYDRA's carefully put in controls._

 

“ _Bucky.” Brock confirmed, walking over to grab some pills and force down a gulp of water. He wished he had a beer instead. They could probably both have used one. He decided there was no reason not to have one, and walked over to the small fridge jammed in the corner. He pulled out one bottle, then as an afterthought a second one clinked in his hand. “You know it doesn't matter.” He said as he twisted the tops off both and set one down on the table beside him._

 

“ _It matters.”_

 

“ _No. It doesn't. You know you won't remember this later, don't you?”_

 

_Bucky's jaw set tightly, and his good fingers twitched before he snatched up the bottle and stared at the mouth of it. Rumlow wonders if he'd try to leave. He didn’t move, though, didn’t try to flee. He was a good soldier, a good asset; broken._

 

“ _I know.” His lips twisted grimly, resigned, obedient._

 

“ _What you're doing,” Rumlow found himself saying, not understanding where it was even coming from. “You're making a difference in the world. You're doing what no one else can.” He hadn’t thought he would be giving a pep talk to a hydra weapon before bed tonight, but he had probably been in stranger situations._

 

“ _Am I?” Bucky set the bottle down without drinking and stood, but he didn’t move around. He looked listless._

 

“ _Hey, you are.” Rumlow took a step closer and put a hand on his shoulder. He wasn’t going to get attacked again, not by this man, and he meant it, what he said. “None of this would have been possible without what you do. Not everyone gets a chance to save the world from itself.”_

 

_Bucky raised his hand. Brock wasn’t sure at first if he'd possibly underestimated if the man would attack him again. His fingers touched Brock's arm instead, holding onto him. They should have been callused from the work they did, rough, but they were almost soft, not a single groove or catch in them. It's his fingerprints, Brock realized. A ghost can't have fingerprints._

 

“ _Thank you.”_

 

“ _No problem, guy. You want to get some sleep?” That should have been an order. Sooner he got to sleep the sooner he was fixed, but he didn’t make it one. The man was getting wiped in the morning, and it felt wrong to deny him a couple hours of humanity. A secret reward for all he'd done. It wasn’t surprising when he shook his head._

 

_Bucky sat, instead, tapping his fingers slowly over the tabletop. He looked worlds away, but it wasn’t the same blank look from before. It was like he was concentrating, trying to bring up every single memory he possibly could. “Do I know you?” he finally asked, fingers pausing their incessant tap._

 

“ _Barely. I've watched you a couple of times before. We've worked on some missions together.”_

 

“ _Has this happened before?”_

 

“ _This? Not with me.”_

 

_With that he seemed to be out of questions to ask. He was quiet. Quiet enough that Brock wondered if whatever had just happened had switched off somehow. He looked over suddenly._

 

“ _Why are you being nice to me?”_

 

_That made Rumlow laugh. “Because, whether I like to admit it or not, you can wipe the floor with me. I've seen everything you can do. You might not remember it all, but I do.”_

 

“ _But you're not scared of me.”_

 

“ _No reason to be. We're on the same side of the war. Hell, we're practically drinking buddies after this, right?”_

 

“ _I didn't drink the beer,” Bucky said, staring down at the bottle again, perplexed._

 

“ _If you don't, I will. No sense in wasting a good beer,” he answered as he tipped his own bottle back to his lips and took a long swig. He watched Bucky over the edge of it, how he slowly picked up the bottle and brought it to his own lips. How long had it been since the guy had had a beer? He deserved one. That was all this was, really. A man served the world like that, and he should get a beer and a few minutes off duty that didn’t involve him in a freezer._

 

“ _I want to remember,” he finally said after a long moment of holding the liquid in his mouth, rolling it on his tongue and swallowing it slowly. Brock wanted to shoot himself in the foot when he realized that his own eyes were focused on Bucky's throat, the slow bob of his Adam’s apple, and the slip of pink from his tongue peeking out to lick the fine mist of beer from his lips._

 

“ _We all want things we can't have, guy.”_

 

_He'd blame hormones that night. Both of theirs. Bucky feeling lost and stupidly latching onto him like some sort of abandoned puppy, the haze that came with finishing off his six pack together and starting in on a bottle of good vodka, the adrenaline rush from being put in a stranglehold and the ache of bruises still on his throat. Bucky's pink, soft mouth and his smooth fingertips. All of that just working together to fuck him over._

 

_He didn’t even know when they ended up on the bed together. Brock couldn’t even blame the other man. He only had one arm and at first he looked just as confused as Rumlow when he moved in for a kiss, hungry and licking the burn of vodka out of Bucky's mouth. His breath was sucked in sharply when Brock's teeth caught on his bottom lip and scraped over it, the copper tang of blood mingling with the burn on his tongue, the ache in his lungs, and rush of blood to his dick as Bucky's good arm was suddenly shoving him against the headboard._

 

_His fingers caught on Brock's shoulder and he was still, staring at him in silence. He didn’t look blank anymore, his eyes focused on Brock now, not the space around him. Brock's voice was hoarse as he pulled Bucky's hand back to his throat. “Do it again.” He demands it._

 

_Bucky's mouth closed over his again as his fingers squeezed around his throat. His dick was at fucking attention, ready to leak as his body struggled against the hold and his lips fought to kiss him back, to bite, taste. Bucky's body was heavy, metal and muscle compressing him down onto the bed, smothering him. He choked and the room dimmed again before Bucky’s fingers let go. His mouth didn’t, though; it was still stealing all of his air as he gasped for breath._

 

“ _Shit.” He laughed roughly, teeth flashing white and a little red from where he'd bit through Bucky's lip. Blood was smeared on both of their lips and Brock's vision was obscured by floating black dots as he pushed at Bucky, grabbed at his pants and nearly laughed again at how fucking hard they were to open._

 

_Brock sucked his dick as soon as he could actually get to it, chuckling around the mouthful of it as his knees bruised on the floor. He wasn't gentle. He never was when he had a prick in his mouth. Bucky didn’t moan, didn’t say anything, but his breathing was heavy, quick pants that press past pink lips as his head dropped back and Brock sucked him down an inch deeper. It was noisy, spit and slick precome glossing his shaft and running past Brock's lips. His fingers were suddenly in Brock’s hair, a grip tight enough to tear his scalp off if he’d wanted. Instead they pulled him down, down until he’d got him in his throat. He was choking again, his face turning red and burn prickling at his eyes. He couldn't break it if he wanted to, and that was something new. He could play this game, has played this game a million times over, and it has never been this real, never been a shiver of lust and terror running down his spine that he couldn’t just break free if he wanted. He was going to take what's given._

 

_He gasped when he was pulled up, licking over his lips, eyes flicking up. “Why'd you fucking stop?”_

 

_He barely got another chance to breathe before his mouth was stuffed again. His own hand was in his pants, stroking over his leaking cock, fluid seeping into the softer material of his sleep pants, staining the front a shade darker. He choked again, and that was enough to have him pumping his cock faster, a strangled noise ripping from his body as he came so hard he felt like he was flying, stars in his eyes and so off this planet that the bitter taste of Bucky's come in his mouth didn’t even register._

 

_They hadn't talked about what happened after, not the bruises all over Brock's body, not Bucky's swollen lips. Brock had been greedy, stealing one more kiss, pushing the taste of Bucky's own come against his tongue before he'd dropped down onto the other bed to sleep without a word. Bucky had gone quietly in the morning. No fuss, just a quiet grimace set on his face as Brock escorted him to the lab. After the wipe, The Asset spent about 5 months in cold storage, and Rumlow had too much on his plate to waste time thinking about an ice cube, a blank one, even if it was only a matter of time before he got sent to him again._


	2. Chapter 2

_"Got a mission sent down for you. You're escorting you-know-who," Rollins announced as he tossed a clipboard towards him. Rumlow caught it up and tapped his fingers over the paper. Three level 5 targets. He whistled softly as he flipped over their intel. His index finger froze in place when Bucky—when The Asset's codename showed up. "When we thawing him?"_

 

_"Already done. Down in the lab and suiting up."_

 

_He didn't kid himself. He knew what was waiting for him. He didn't even see the blank eyes. He was already fully suited in his mask, his head tilted downward as he observed a scientist doing a quick calibration on his arm._

 

_"Let's go. Asset." He whistled and waved his clipboard towards the door. He wasn't going to wait around, and he wasn't going to think about how the fingers currently resting lightly on the slab had felt wrapped around his throat. His dick twitched, and he always got a little hard before he took on a high class mission, but it didn't feel quite like this._

 

_They parachuted down. The Asset hadn't said a word on the plane, Brock hadn’t expected him to. His orders were being fed to him via his goggles, on loop. Not that he ever needed to hear a mission more than once. He was a hell of a lot smarter than they gave him credit for, even with the wipes._

 

_Their boots crunched into gravel and Rumlow already had his firearm out. No one who saw them was allowed to leave the complex alive. There was a reason The Asset was a ghost story._

 

_It was grittier than he’d thought it would be, a couple of kids hanging around when they weren't in the intel. He hated when that shit happened, even knowing it was a necessary sacrifice, but he wasn’t the one that had to take care of it. He was strictly watch and report. Wait with The Asset until the cleanup crew was deployed, while the blood pools around their boots and sinks into their ridges. They didn't have a chance to scream, made it easier, fewer nightmares._

 

_"Come on, guy." He could hear the thick whir of a helicopter cutting through the air._

 

_The Asset’s head ticked strangely at him._

 

_They fucked, back in the bunker. Brock wasn’t sure if he was fucking The Asset, or Bucky, or a strange mixture of both, or how it had even started. Neither of them said a word almost the entire time, not one fucking word as they desperately tried to eat each other alive with clicks of teeth and nails scraping over each other's skin. Bucky's name was finally ripped from his lungs at the wet suckle of chapped pink lips slurping over his cock. Blue eyes that looked like they’d been drifting through storm clouds flicked up sharply at him. Brock didn’t want to think about it, didn’t want to have to explain. He broke the sudden palatable tension in the air with Bucky's name again as he came, metal fingers digging into his thigh, strong enough to crush bone, now leaving clear bruises that only added a sharp edge to his orgasm that made the ride all the better._

 

_He had him for three weeks, then, a string of missions that had them crashing into each morning with blood streaked over their skin and bruises covering their bodies, only half of them from their targets. Bucky kept his name the entire trip. It was never said during their missions, neither of them was that fucking stupid, but Bucky made him say it when he touched him, whenever they were coming apart at the fucking seams in some sort of fucked up catharsis of sex and pain and demands that could only be found between two broken soldiers who know that it wouldn’t matter when the night came again and they'd need to press on and forget._

 

“ _Do you know who I am?”_

 

“ _You know your name, Bucky. Go to sleep.” Brock grunted it out as he shut his eyes to sleep. He was in full uniform still, they both were. They were not making love when they fucked; there was no need to strip off. They just shoved away anything that needed to be moved and tugged it back into place after they’d finished. Hell, they’d both still got their boots on as they were stretched out on a cold, bare floor, waiting for their next orders to come in over the secure line. He was tempted to use Bucky's arm as a pillow, metal or not it'd leave less of a crick in his neck than laying on nothing, but that was too close to intimate for his tastes._  
  
“No. Do you know who I was?”

 

_Brock cracked an eye open. “No. You were born years before I was. My grandparents would have had a better chance of knowing you.” It was an easy lie. Sure, he knew who Bucky had been, historically, but he knew nothing about what the man had really been like._

 

_The answer didn’t satisfy Bucky, but it did quiet him. He stared up at the ceiling, motionless, only the occasional blink, the ever so slight rise and fall of his chest showing that he’d got any life in him. It was a stark contrast to the flushed, pink cheeks and O-shape of his mouth only moments ago as he’d been coming in Brock's hand._

 

_Brock sighs. It'd been too long of a night for this shit. His hand scrubbed over his face and he told himself he was only doing this so that he could get some sleep without thinking of Bucky's blank eyes staring up at the ceiling. “From what I hear, you've always been a soldier. You were just on the wrong side, before.”_

 

_The soft whir of Bucky's arm could be heard as he shifted onto his side to face Brock. “This is the right side, now?”_

 

“ _Of course it is.” That, Brock can as least answer without hesitation. “We're saving humanity from itself. It's not an easy thing. There needs to be people like us around who can dig into the mud and make something better for everyone.”_

 

_He somehow ended up with his head pillowed against Bucky's arm anyway, sleeping perpendicular on the cold floor until the com came through. Then they were up and out. The wipe came the next day; Brock followed Bucky to the chair for it. Neither of them tried to stop it. Brock didn’t look back after he strapped one of Bucky’s arms down to the chair to help him keep still. The muffled, pained screams made his skin creep, and felt like nails down his spine._

 

_It was for the best. It was easier for The Asset if he didn’t remember and wasn’t distracted. He reminded himself of exactly how stupid he had been over the past few weeks, how whatever happened couldn’t happen again._

 

And so it goes. Years have passed, clipboards have become tablets and his firearms are usually kept to his side and replaced with his taser sticks. Brock is getting older but Bucky looks just as lost and young every time they tumble into bed together. Each time Brock fucking swears it won't happen. Each time it does, and every wipe, every trip he takes down to deliver The Asset to cold storage... They're all just reminders of why he can't do that this time, though, and he has to fucking mean it. There's too much at stake. They're so close. _So_ close to finishing things, and he can't be distracted from that.

 

He blocks out the silent presence beside him as he focuses instead on the information the screen was displaying. HYDRA technology has always been state of the art, and Brock considers it a point of pride that he's kept up with it over the years, adapted to the changes. When he finally stands from his lean there's a crick in his back, the sound of bones popping back into place. It seems to get The Asset's attention.

 

“Not all of us get cooled off until we're needed, guy. Some of us gotta age.”

 

No answer. It's just a reminder that he shouldn't be talking to it.

 

He takes him to maintenance. No talk then, just scientists hovering around, poking and prodding. No questions asked to The Asset, there never are. It's not like the upkeep of a soldier, no 'does this hurt?'. It's always whatever they need to do to keep him the fastest, the strongest, the deadliest.

 

“If we had more time I'd suggest amputating the other limb and creating another cybernetic enhancement.” One notes offhandedly, marking over a tablet. “If I had been in charge before we would have done it years ago to increase his ability in both arms. Shame it doesn't make sense to do it now. It would be out of commission too long and field tests would be needed before implementing it again.”

 

Brock's eyes flick up from his own tablet. The monitor hooked up to The Asset's heart is going crazy. He snaps his fingers sharply, and it's enough to have all eyes suddenly on him.

 

“Finish up the inspection. I don't have all day to sit around and listen to you stroke your own egos because your pricks are too small to cut it.”

 

They're too smart to glare at him, or to keep bickering. Brock feels a pair of stormy blue eyes locked onto him for the rest of the examination. It's not the first time. The Asset's eyes tend to focus on him during exams and maintenance, especially when its heart rate has risen. He can't recognize him, he can't, but Rumlow's got a theory that there's sense memory even when the mind is gone. Maybe after so many years there's just something familiar about Brock's silhouette, his shape, the sound of his voice.

He tries not to think about it too much.

 

“We're done here.” Brock decides for them when it seems like they're just finding excuses to poke and prod at him, when there's quiet murmuring and planning that he can't quite make out. It should have been ' _I'm_ done here'. He knows that, and maybe they know it too, but they don't say or do anything beyond giving him a few constipated looks. The Asset hasn't moved. His gaze still hasn't left Brock, or, more accurately, his boots, or maybe the floor right under them.

 

Back to the private rooms, the ones he knows aren't private even for a second. It rubs him the wrong way to know they're being watched. Not that it matters apparently. Pierce's words echo in his head sometimes. ' _I know your profile, agent. You're not the type.'_ He knows he's not, either, but it feels like he should be able to _stop_ himself from doing this. He's never been the sort to be addicted to anything but the rush from combat.

 

Maybe that's what he likes about it so much. Every fuck with Bucky leaves him more bruised and satisfied than any battle.

 

“Top bunk. Get some sleep.”

 

Bunks make things easier. He can catch some sleep in the bottom while still keeping an eye on The Asset. He goes to wash up on the bathroom, stripping off his vest as he walks out. The Asset is still standing there, looking up at the bunk. That's a surprise, and an unpleasant one. Part of Brock has always known that, once they're alone, Bucky always seems to show up pretty quickly, like he's pressing at The Asset’s metal seams, just waiting for the chance to rattle loose, but it's something he's ignored. He doesn't like the idea that there's something in him that seems to draw him out or make him pop loose quicker. He sure has hell shouldn't be some sort of catalyst for him.

 

“I said top bunk.” Brock repeats it as he drops down to lay on the bottom. “What do you want, a bedtime story?”

 

The Asset tilts his head, staring at him silently. It's not tension in the air, Brock isn't even sure what it is, but it's thick, hanging over both of them like a fog. The Asset says nothing. He simply climbs up into the top bunk and lies down.

 

A strange thought catches in Brock's brain as he closes his eyes. He was waiting up, waiting for Brock to go to sleep with him. He dismisses it by morning as a weird fluke. The rest of the day is non-eventful, enough. There's more maintenance. He doesn't know why they feel the need to poke and prod him so much every time he's out, but he has to admit that they know a hell of a lot more about the science behind The Asset than he does.

 

He shouldn't stick round for it. There's a million other things he needs to be doing. The balancing act between S.H.I.E.L.D. and Hydra has always been a heavy enough load without this added to it.

 

It's the racing heartbeat caught on the monitor when he turns towards the door that makes him stay. Keep The Asset in tip top condition. That's his highest priority right now, and if staring down at Brock's boots while they do some maintenance on his arm is what does it, then Brock will spend an hour or so standing there giving orders via his tablet instead of in person.

 

The day goes on and he develops a shadow. Lunch is eaten in silence. He has a sandwich, The Asset is sent with some of his shit nutritional paste. He nearly slips him a bite of salami but it feels too much like feeding a dog table scraps.

 

The Asset needs to stretch and work his body, so there is no reason for them not to go to the gym together, as strange as the idea is. It's not like Hydra's facility isn't private.

 

It's a terrible idea. He feels like an old man compared to watching The Asset lift endless weights, break through punching backs, threatening to wear holes through the track as he runs endlessly, not a pant leaving him, his eyes staring straight ahead. It's as unnerving as it is distracting to watch the sweat run down his bare skin.

 

The rest of the day is about as boring as it can get when you've got a highly lethal weapon tagging around with you. There were plenty of stares, only his own STRIKE team is trained enough not to look phased by The Asset as he goes over orders with them. It's dinner, some time on the gun range, some more tests, then an early turn in with his shadow.

 

Just bed. They're just going to bed. Separate bunks again. A couple of days and this will be done. He'll be in the clear and prove to himself he has some sort of fucking self control. He flicks off the light and drops onto his bunk to close his eyes.

 

“What is our mission?”

 

Of course. Brock rubs a hand over his face. Of course he's wondering. He always does when he's not given his objective right away.

 

“Nothing right now, consider this some R&R ok?” It wasn't. It was more testing and development, but it was better to look at it like that. “You're just keeping me company.”

 

“My mission... is to keep you company?” Confusion. That's not a tangible objective, and Brock shakes his head, his lips twitching in the dark.

 

“Nah, just a bonus, right? I'm pretty cool to hang around with.” He chuckles dryly at his own joke. He's not exactly one to attract friends beyond a few drinking buddies that are few and far between.

 

There's a long pause that Brock thinks is the end of the discussion before The Asset speaks.

 

“Yes.”

 

It's simple, but there's a sincerity in it that has Brock turning over in his bunk and tugging the blankets up higher. “Go to sleep.”

 

Two days. Two more days and he breaks.


	3. Chapter 3

It's the showers. That, and there have been peeks of Bucky in the soldier, leaking out whenever they're alone. Chilly blue eyes staring at him, the way he looks down at his own hands, staring and squeezing them together, his brain patching up pieces of himself, a quiet, barely heard laugh when Rumlow lowers a weight at the gym and grunts in pain from having overdone it.

That had earned a dirty look, and the laugh was gone in an instant, but the mirthful look in The Asset’s eyes was the same.

He's enjoying himself. He likes being around Brock. He always has.

It's in the showers, when he sees the water running down The Asset's body, that he says fuck it. They're going to go on the hardest missions of their life soon. They both deserve this. That's what he says to justify it.

Brock's wrapping around him under the spray don't seem to surprise him, like he's been expecting it, giving Brock the chance to crack and crumble before he takes matters into his own hands, like he has before when Brock has taken too long to give into this.

Fuck him for that.

It's the last thought he lets himself have before Brock is pushing his prize chest up against the chilly tile, watching the far too human shiver run up his spine as his fingers curl in his soldier's hair and pull slowly, drawing his head back, forcing his spine to curl as he pressed his lips just between his shoulder blades to taste clean skin.

It's almost gentle when they're both anything but. They don't make love, but if they did, it would still be with their fists.

He wishes he'd just given into this two days ago and brought lube. He'd done it before and had his breath punched out of his lungs from the feeling of Bucky desperately riding him. Instead, his lips bare and his teeth nick a deep red mark onto Bucky's chest that will be gone within the hour. The same can't be said for his hip when Bucky's hand shoots back to grab it, to tug him close. The metal is warmed from the hot water and it only adds to the achy heat he feels from the bruises biting deep into his skin.

It's a clusterfuck. With no lube, he settles for nudging his cock between Bucky's cheeks, rutting against him like some fucking schoolboy who was told he can't even put the tip in. His fingers find their way to Bucky's throat as he bites the back of his neck. He can feel the strained pants coming from The Asset’s chest, and Brock feels a spark of pride in his chest when he thinks of all the laps he ran today that didn't take The Asset's breath away.

His fingers skim up Bucky's throat and press against his damp lips, over his gums and against teeth that could snap his digits off without a chip to them. Bucky's pink lips purse instead, sucking at Brock's fingers as Brock fucks against his smooth skin, his cock leaking precome down on his ass and the small of his back, washed away by the rush of water.

Bucky's hand doesn't leave his hip, pulling him closer with each rut of Brock's hips. It's painful, and the angle is all wrong, but it's perfect for them. Brock gives a reach around, feels Bucky's cock rigid and burning up against his palm as he presses it against his belly and palms up it. There's no words between them, just heavy breaths and Brock biting down on his own tongue when he comes to stop Bucky's name from ripping out of his throat.

They fuck three more times in the next couple of days. Brock grabs some lube and stops pretending it's not going to happen. At least he doesn't use Bucky's name. It's anything but, even if he can see so much of Bucky when his fingers curl around his shoulders greedily, when they bite and scratch and leave bruises on each other that would never pass for training scars. It's like so many pieces of him have fallen into place. His name, though, that's something he never gets back on his own, even if it's on the tip of his tongue, bitten back every fucking time.

Their mission is so close, and there's no time to wipe The Asset now. Can't make him unstable for something this big. He's a soldier first, and whatever this is, it's secondary. That's why he keeps a lid on it even if he can't keep his dick in his pants, and that's the important thing. That's what he tells himself as he makes his delivery of The Asset to Pierce as the end of his testing, just in time for a mission with Captain Rogers, himself, and the members of STRIKE. The final puzzle pieces having fallen into place.

He doesn't see him again, not beyond a few glimpses, not until they're back down in the labs. The Asset incredibly agitated. There's turmoil in his eyes even as he's still and quiet for Pierce. Only Pierce feels in control enough to deliver a slap to him, like he's a tv with bad reception. Hit him till he tunes into the proper program.

“But I _knew_ him.” Bucky is there, strong and kicking, and that's probably Rumlow's fault. He let him out too much, talked to him too much. He hadn't used his name this time, but he'd treated him too much like a person, and it could have jeopardized everything.

He sees Bucky's eyes flit towards him, lock onto his for a desperate moment. Brock makes sure his eyes are closed off. He can't encourage this. Not at all. There's no time for coddling or handholding and Brock can see that even if he cringes inwardly when he hears the order for Pierce to wipe him and start over. This close, it's a desperate move, and it's his fault. The soldier in him is fucking disgusted with himself.

He tries not to, but he twists back to look when he hears the whir of the machine starting up. It's quick, and nothing he needs to see, not those eyes on him, not that body contorted in pain.

What's he going to do about it, anyway?

“You want me with him after?” Brock asks as soon as the door shuts behind them.

“Only for a final delivery,” Pierce says, hand on his chin as he speaks. His eyes fix on Brock. It's not to look for weakness, it never has been, Pierce read his profile. “I'll need you back here as soon as he's in place. We can't afford any room for error.”

“Yes sir.”

Final delivery. One final mission.

It's how Pierce keeps phrasing it that keeps playing back in his head. There's no promise of peace for Bucky, after. No order through the pain they have felt and used to accomplish their goals, because Bucky isn't a soldier. He's a piece of equipment, and what is done with obsolete equipment? It’s decommissioned. They won't kill him. He's too valuable... But Brock is certain they'll put him on ice for the next few centuries, just in case they need him again.

“ _They're going to freeze me again soon?” Bucky asked it as they lay stretched out side by side on the bunk, not touching, just two perpendicular lines as Brock had a rare smoke. He was sharing it with The Asset in a way that he was sure would have gotten him reamed out if they had been actually back on the base under surveillance, but this was just a shitty pit stop in the middle of nowhere, in a corner of the globe that not even HYDRA had under its watchful eye. The mission was done, and they were just waiting overnight for a pickup. One cigarette wouldn’t be the death of either of them._

“ _Your guess is as good as mine, guy, but I think this is the last string of missions for a while, though, yeah.”_

_The corner of Bucky's mouth twitched. He didn’t protest. He never did. He needed to follow his orders._

“ _Will you come see me?”_

“ _See you?” Brock laughed a little, not getting it. “You're not gonna know I'm there. You'll be taking a nap.”_

_Bucky was quiet for a long time after that, until the flame of the cigarette had been sucked down to the filter. Brock thought that was the end of the conversation. Of course it wasn’t. Bucky pinched out the burning cig with the squeeze of metallic fingers, extinguishing the last bit of light in the room._

“ _I don't.”_

_Rumlow should probably have let it go, but instead he bit. “Don't what?”_

“ _Sleep.”_

_It didn’t need to be explained. Brock got it, and it made his own insides feel a little frozen at the idea. He was there, all there when he was frozen up, paralyzed in place and watching the world pass by him._

_ No wonder they liked to wipe him when they pulled him out of storage. How scrambled up did his brains have to be after years of that? Better to start out with a clean slate. _

“ _I'll stop by_.”

He had. During cold storage, Brock always found reasons to go down to the lab, picking up some equipment, questioning some of the techs, checkups by some of the doctors because 'they were better than SHIELD’s’. It stroked their ego, and kept them from asking questions. He was never alone, so he couldn't just go over and talk to The Asset like someone would a potted plant or something, but his eyes would flick over to the freezer in the corner of the room and he'd find reasons to make conversation.

What about now, though? Brock isn’t kidding himself. He isn’t going to live forever. He isn’t the retiring type, and even with peace, there’s bound to be something that’s going to put him out of the picture sooner or later, even if it’s just old age, and Bucky will be there, frozen in place for centuries, maybe until the end of time, watching.

It's the stuff of Brock's personal nightmares and it seems _wrong_ , an unfitting reward for a good soldier. When HYDRA has established order, there has to be another use for Bucky, hell, even if it's just training the new cadets and teaching them to be scared shitless of HYDRA'S power. Or, even better still, the world. Captain America has always been a symbol of America's power. Why couldn't the Winter Soldier be theirs, now that there was no reason to hide?

The idea of sharing those thoughts with Pierce, though… That's laughable. He's not a PR agent. He's a soldier, and he's not full of himself enough to think that Pierce will see him as anything but that, no matter how good of a job he does.

Bucky reeks when Brock's called down to pick him back up. It's worse than usual, like it's going to burn out the inside of his nostrils.

“He's still pretty unstable,” one of the scientists warns him, wary as he keeps his distance from The Asset. Bucky's eyes aren't their usual distant look, they're glazed, his hands hanging down as loose as his hair as it falls forward over his shoulders from his bowed head. “We had to use a lot of juice. His brain kept rejecting the wipe.”

Because of Steve Rogers. He meant what he'd said to the man. Taking him down was just another step towards their goals. He'd much rather Rogers be able to see the truth in their plans. He’s the sort of man who could do what needed to be done, but he’s on the wrong team, and he isn’t the sort to switch sides.

What a waste.

Now, it just rubs him the wrong way. To think that Steve had done what only Brock had been doing for over a decade now, rattling Bucky loose. It's the wrong sort of thinking, especially now, but that's the mind for you. Rumlow gets why it's so much easier to wipe a person clean than to try to mold them.

That is the wrong line of thinking, period. He keeps walking down the corridor to the drop off point.

Something stops his feet, though. He can't bring himself to that last corridor. That last drop off point can't feel like their last meeting, and why it can't, Brock can never fucking explain to himself or anyone else for that matter. He spins around, instead, and puts a hand on Bucky's arm to still him, leaning in close.

“I'm not going to let them freeze you away for centuries, guy,” he whispers against his ear. He feels ridiculous, they're not star-crossed lovers, and this isn't some sort of last words in a doomed romance. The Asset isn't even looking at him, only the twitch of his fingers betraying that he's listening. Brock brings his hands up, battle callused fingers digging into the thick fabric covering the Winter Soldier's shoulders.

“I'm not going to let it happen. Just know that. I'll find a way to get you out of that. One way or another. I promise.” It's the least he can do. Maybe it's because Brock has never believed in a 'sure thing', and there's a good chance one of them is going to die, but right now, it's an easier thing to admit to himself that those quiet, stolen away moments are the things that have been keeping him sane doing HYDRA's dirtiest work for over a decade, and that Bucky, the Bucky that's been hidden away for almost a century, is the closest thing he has to... what, a friend? Something else? He doesn't know.

“Just follow your mission. Complete your mission.” He squeezes his shoulders firmly, not daring to use his name, not now, but wanting this to get through. “Just complete your mission, soldier, and I'll do everything I can to make sure...” He isn't even sure of what. “I'll have your back, soldier,” he finally finishes and lets go.

He's gone the next second. His bootsteps a lone echo in the hall as The Asset stays put for pickup. They both have their orders, and their last missions are solo. He puts The Asset—Bucky, he puts Bucky out of his mind while he gives the orders, while all hell breaks loose and SHIELD makes one last ditch effort to stop their plans, when the Triskelion falls on him. He's out of his thoughts until the pain of several tons of building collapses down on him, eclipsing his mind, blanking it save for one last thought before everything goes dim.

_How the hell is he going to keep his promise, now?_

Everything fucking hurts. It's the first conscious thought that he's had since... Well, whatever his last thought was. He didn't think he'd be having another, though, so it was all somewhat surprising. An entire buildinghad collapsed on him. That's not the kind of thing people just get to live through. Not unless they’re—

It's even worse to try to open his eyes, like his eyelids have been fused shut and need to be ripped back open, and with the sharp pain running through them, maybe they have. The room is blinding even though part of him knows it's probably low lighting.

It doesn't matter, anyway. This is just a tiny room, barren beyond the jumble of hospital equipment blocking off more of the floor space, half of it hooked up to him. There's a small window. It looks like it might be barred off from the outside, never a good sign in this position. He can just barely see snow outside. Last he knew it was summer, not that it matters much. It's not what's on his mind.

He's the only one here. They lost. He knows that much. He can feel it inside, can tell from the subtle details of this room that he is not here as a war hero so much as he is a POW. He glances around the room more and feels a twist in his already knotted up guts.

Whatever shadow he thought he might see when he opened his eyes was only, what? Wishful thinking? Some sort of twisted hope that he wasn't alone here? That even if everything that he had dedicated his life to and sacrificed so much to achieve had been destroyed that there was still—

His quiet laugh is more of a wheeze, something that's sharp and burns his lungs. He should be quiet, shouldn't make any sound that might give away that he's awoken and likely needs to be restrained or carted off to a prison hospital. But he can't help it.

It's his taser sticks.

He can see that they've been wedged against the wall just beside the bed, tucked away so that in the small room any nurses or doctors or guards, because he doesn't know exactly what the people treating him know or whose side they're on, would never noticed them as they go about their routine, treating this wrecked up comatose patient. Hell, he only sees them because the edges are just slightly poking up out from this viewpoint and he'd know them anywhere.

Rollins is his first thought. He's always been the most loyal son of a bitch in his team. If anyone were going to slip in here and tuck those away for him...

He falls back asleep. It's not a conscious thing, but there's only so much his body can take right now. He fades in and out of consciousness for days, maybe weeks, careful that whenever he opens his eyes he's the only one around. Stretching his body is excruciating, newly healed over and scarred skin too tight on his bones. He's nowhere near his best, he's nowhere near a _kindergartner's_ best, but surprise is going to what gets him out of here. That's what he tells himself as he takes his first hobbling steps around the room, still hooked up to his IV and fucking catheter _._

He's racing against an invisible clock, working to get back onto his feet as much as he can, knowing it's only a matter of time before they realize he's not quite the vegetable they thought he was. When he can walk back and forth in the small room several times without feeling like he's going to keel over, he knows it's time. He drops down onto the bed for a short rest, something to recoup while he waits for the next doctor visit. He'll be needing that ID pass card hanging around his neck, after all.

As he waits, his fingers touch over the ends of his taser sticks. He hasn't moved them yet, not wanting them to be seen even if he had been caught up and about. It's time now, though, so he pulls them up, grunting at the effort it takes to unwedge just one of them. The other is caught or stuck. It doesn't slide up nearly as easily. The amount of exertion it takes is ridiculous, frustrating beyond measure that he doesn't have the strength to pull up a fucking stick. He continues to pull, nearly ready to give up until he hears an almost sticky sounding noise, like Velcro unlatching or something finally being pulled free.

He lays the taser stick in his lap and stares down at it dumbly. It must have been broken in the collapse, three jagged pieces that can't possibly still fully function, but are still being held together.

By duct-tape.

Rollins wouldn't have done that. There would be no reason for it. He would have done a better job of fixing it, found him a replacement, or some other weapon, anything but the stuck together mess on his lap.

Then why is he suddenly so happy to see it? Why do all of the questions he's been forcing out of his head these past few days while he planned his escape suddenly seem less hopeless? He tries to tell himself to calm the fuck down. It could be a coincidence. It could be anything other than what he's thinking. That, if anything, he should be pissed that it's going to be harder to make his way out of here, now.

He's not, though. Somehow it feels worth it. He lies back and pulls the blanket back over his body, his left thumb sticking to the residue on the broken weapon. When he hears the click of the door opening, the corner of his lip ticks up. This is going to be the hardest mission of his life, and the more dangerous something is, the more Brock has embraced it and excelled.

Besides. He's got to get out of here. He's got someone to find.


End file.
